


fathoms deep

by erebones



Series: tides and fathoms [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Hand & Finger Kink, Ice Play, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Scratching, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 18:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Caleb isn't used to the heat. Fjord provides some relief.





	fathoms deep

**Author's Note:**

> This was born of many discussions with various friends about Fjord's claws. You know who you are. <3 I'm considering this to be in the same verse as love and fate, and depending on how things go I may add to this... these boys need some softness in their lives (and maybe a little spice wink wonk) to balance out the crazy.

The door is unlocked when Caleb comes to it. The night air is thick and a little bit muggy this side of Basaft, and will only get worse the farther south they go, but Caleb, against all odds, is growing used to it. He’s learned to leave his coat behind, if he can, to sleep on top of the covers in only his skivvies; he’s learned the importance of a quick dip in the early mornings when the water is cool from the night air and the ocean is a soft, welcome friend rather than a raging enemy.

He’s learned how to let down some of his walls and permit himself to ask for help, when he needs it. It’s still a strange prospect, but it’s growing on him. He presses his thumb down on the top of the latch and swings the door inward.

It’s become a little ritual. In the evenings, when they have a moment or two to steal for themselves, Caleb makes his way quietly to the captain’s quarters for a bit of quiet conversation. He loves all his friends dearly, but one in particular has made a deep impression on him. In more ways than one. He has come to appreciate Fjord’s company, even crave it. Crave it like the trail of cool water down one’s back on a hot day. He shuts the door behind him and stands there a moment, just breathing.

Fjord is waiting for him, as usual. In the days since they returned from the extraplanar dimension, they’ve taken time to rearrange the quarters to Fjord’s liking. The desk was gotten rid of at Basaft, and in its place Fjord acquired a table made of beech that sits squarely in the center of the room. The top is almost completely taken up with the map that came with the ship, its edges weighted down with heavy glass. The bedding was gotten rid of as well, the mattress moved to an inconspicuous corner and hidden behind some fine green velvet drapes that they found in some of the crates they pilfered from that poor merchant ship a week ago.

Nott also convinced them to acquire a proper liquor cabinet, and it stands against the far wall, filled with glass bottles of every shape and color. It’s here that Fjord stands, pouring them each a few fingers of rye. Caleb can smell frost in the air and as he draws near, he can see the spidery white ghosting of ice on the outside of the glass, crawling outward from Fjord’s fingers.

“For you,” Fjord says when he draws near, turning on his heel. He offers a disarming smile and Caleb’s breath tightens in his chest as he accepts. “All right?”

“All right.” He lifts the drink to his nose and breathes in the cold, the sharp sting of liquor. Breathes out relaxation. The glass is cold to the touch and seems reluctant to give up its chill—he presses it to his sticky forehead and sighs. “Perhaps it is time I add some ice spells to my repertoire. They are very multipurpose.”

“Indeed.” Fjord pours his own drink, a slightly smaller serving, and knocks it back in one quick swallow. Caleb follows the motion of his throat with his eyes and savors his own first sip, wetting his lips with his tongue afterward.

There’s always a bit of a dance, at first. Caleb isn’t sure which of them wears the blame for it, or how to move past it—this thing is new for both of them, and they navigate its waters blindly, each turning to the other for the cue that never comes. Sometimes that’s all it is, then: a quiet evening in, chatting over the day’s events, their future plans, the antics of their traveling companions. Caleb is always careful to gauge Fjord’s mood on those nights, and make himself scarce at the slightest yawn or droop of the eyelids.

Other nights, whether thanks to the alcohol or the unbearable tension pent up between them for so long, the dance dissolves harmlessly and they come together. Hands, first, or foreheads, or just the quick _sotto voce_ —”Do you want…?”—and the eager nod, or smile, or sideways look. And then heat and skin and sweat. A new endeavor that nonetheless holds great promise.

Caleb isn’t sure he wants _heat_ tonight, at least not of the temperate sort. But Fjord’s fingers on the glass are thick and sturdy, rimed in frost, and there’s a lick of sharpness in his belly like a dagger made of ice demanding to be wielded.

Fjord is moving to pour himself another. That won’t do. With as much gentleness as he can muster, Caleb reaches out and touches his wrist. The skin is cool and dry to the touch, and when he leans close he can smell saltwater and tallow. Fjord has bathed recently, then. He is so sweetly fastidious it makes Caleb ache. He leans in, drink half-finished, and kisses the edge of Fjord’s mouth where he missed a tiny patch of stubble shaving.

“Cay..." Glass clinks against wood and a moment later, a broad hand skates around the corner of Caleb’s hip, drawing them flush.

It occurs to him to apologize for this—they’ve hardly said two words to each other since he arrived, and it feels rude to just shove him up against the cabinet without so much as a by your leave—but Fjord’s mouth soon puts an end to that. He kisses Caleb thoroughly, as though they’d been doing it all along. Mouth open, tongue curling against tongue, the slight pressure of new tusks bruising Caleb’s lower lip. He moans and fumbles for the cabinet, setting his glass down before he drops it.

His hands find Fjord’s chest as soon as they’re unencumbered and slide up, up to feel the breadth of his shoulders. His chest is broad and welcoming, the heft of his diaphragm expanding and contracting as they kiss. A moment later Caleb feels the slight chill of Fjord’s fingers sneaking beneath his shirt and he jumps.

“Sorry,” Fjord mumbles, hands curling inward—but Caleb catches his wrists and pins him there and just breathes, nose to nose, still tasting saliva and rye at the back of his throat.

“I like it,” Caleb admits. “I’m not quite used to the heat, yet.”

Fjord’s eyebrows lift just a little, and then there’s a slight sting as frost-edged fingers slide up under Caleb’s shirt. He sways there a moment, adjusting. “Like this?” Fjord wonders aloud, one cold hand to the base of Caleb’s spine, the other rucking up his shirt to rub his thumb over a nipple.

Caleb nods, mouth watering. “Please.”

“You’re bright red, darlin’,” Fjord murmurs. The next press of his lips is to Caleb’s cheek, and either Caleb is suffering from a terrible sunburn, or Fjord’s lips are just as chilled as his hands. Arousal shoots through him at the prospect and he nuzzles into it, lets his hands turn to fists in the sleeves of Fjord’s shirt. “You this flushed everywhere?”

Caleb grins. “Why don’t you find out?”

The rake of claws up his sides is like thin shards of ice being drawn delicately over the skin. Enough to leave a trail, but not enough to break the skin. Caleb shudders and tries very hard not to sink to his knees. Fjord’s eyes flash gold in the dimness, and so does his smile. “Mouthy boy,” he murmurs. Caleb’s knees _do_ buckle then, and he relishes the blank look of surprise on Fjord’s face as he sinks to the floor. “Cay—”

“What?” he rasps, looking up at him with naked desire on his face. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Fjord licks his lips. “Is it what _you_ want?”

“Right now, more than anything.” He presses his face to Fjord’s thigh because it’s _there_ , and because he feels he might dissolve and fly away without Fjord’s sturdy presence to ground him. A moment later he feels the cool touch of fingers in his hair and he whimpers against the cloth. “Fjord, please. I’m so warm…”

“Yeah. You’re burnin’ up, sweetheart.” The hand stays, tangling in his hair; the other meets the side of his face, coaxing his head up, and a thumb trails thoughtfully beneath his lower lip. Moving on instinct, Caleb tips his head back and lets his mouth drop open. A moment later he’s rewarded with the cool press of Fjord’s thumb against his tongue. His eyes fall shut and he moans.

Fjord’s claws are something he’s grown very aware of in recent days. They grow naturally thick and sharp, broader than a cat’s claws and not retractable, but capable of doing a great deal of damage. He remembers the way they sunk into Algar’s throat, puncturing skin like it was tissue paper. He remembers a hundred quiet evenings by the campfire, sharp and clear as icewater in retrospect, peripherally aware of Fjord fastidiously trimming them back with a special file. Sometimes they would get away from him, grown too long, and he would mutter and curse as he set to repairing a torn shirt or ruined sock with his little sewing kit.

Right now they’re all he can think about. The scrape of them against his scalp, combing through his sweaty hair. The faint tickle of them under his jaw. The sharp press of his thumbnail drawing a faint line down the center of his tongue. He lets his mouth slack wider and moans when Fjord presses two more fingers inside. A third. They curl and scrape against the inside of his cheek, distending the skin, and the pads of his fingers massage the spot after, smoothing down beneath his tongue as he holds Caleb’s head in place.

The cold is almost as good as the fullness. Fjord wields frost like he does needle and thread, delicately and with precision. It numbs Caleb’s mouth a little, but never to the point of pain, only enough to soothe the sticky, overwarm feeling that creeps beneath his clothes. He’s drooling all over Fjord’s hand and his own chin, and he doesn’t have it in him to care. He’s riding a high that can’t be matched, cold and stuffed full and blissful as he leans hard against Fjord’s thigh.

He whines when Fjord withdraws. Fjord gives his cheek a sharp little pat and wipes the drool off on Caleb’s shirt. “Good boy,” he murmurs, thumb to Caleb’s temple. “Are you feeling better?”

His mouth is free, now, but he cannot speak. Instead he nods, and sighs with relief when Fjord guides his head to rest against his hip. Claws drag against his nape, lifting the hairs along his spine.

“Cay,” Fjord whispers, once an age has passed. “You think you can stand up for me?”

“Hmmm? Oh, _ja_.” Though his knees ache something fierce and his legs feel as trembly as a newborn foal’s, he manages to get to his feet with a little help from Fjord. The hook of warm hands under his arms reminds him where he is and he feels his face go bright red. “I… I’m sorry, that was… unexpected.”

Fjord’s lips quirk, a tiny flash of humor. “Was it?”

Caleb’s memory reels back like a fishing line cast in reverse. He thinks of their first night together, when their wounded hands were still fresh and bloody, the way he squirmed in the chair as Fjord held him down. Of just a few nights ago, curled up in bed, their bodies curving and arching together as Fjord scraped his claws down Caleb’s back until he was nothing but a mess of red lines stinging with sweat.

“Well,” he says, dry-mouthed. Licking his lips does little to alleviate it—only brings to mind the fresh sense-memory of Fjord fucking his mouth with his fingers like the gentle deflowering of a virgin queen, and he feels ready to collapse all over again. “ _Well._ Maybe not.”

Fjord noses in close and kisses him, still smiling. It’s a welcome relief from being seen. Caleb flings his arms around Fjord’s neck before he can think too hard about it and kisses back. Fjord’s mouth is warmer than Caleb’s, at first, but soon enough they’re a match, tongues welling soft and slick together as Fjord smooths warm, dry hands down his back to his arse. The motion grinds their bodies together and Caleb blurts a muffled curse into his mouth.

“Sweetheart,” Fjord says against his lips, “will you do something for me?”

Caleb chokes. “Anything. Anything, Fjord.”

“Unfasten your trousers and bends over the table.”

It’s delivered so smoothly that Caleb almost doesn’t see the flare of nerves in Fjord’s expression. Mouth tight, eyes crinkling at the corners with worry and self-doubt. He rocks up onto his toes and kisses the dimple in his chin. “Gladly.”

He works the laces open as he goes, and whether by accident or by design, they slump to mid-thigh as soon as he leans over the table. He pillows his head on his arms and turns his mouth into the crook of his elbow to avoid breathing all over the map. What they’re doing is bad enough—he should probably pause the proceedings and suggest rolling it up for safekeeping, but Fjord is already behind him, pushing his shirt up his spine and dragging his trousers down, down around his ankles.

“Spread your legs as wide as you can,” Fjord says from behind him, as matter-of-fact as if he’d asked him to pass the salt. Caleb squirms his feet as wide as they’ll go and bites into his forearm at the feel of two hands spreading his backside. “You tell me if you’re not a fan o’ this, yeah?”

Caleb nods, and receives a slight pinch on the arse for his troubles.

“Use your words, darlin’.”

“ _Yes._ Yes, I’ll—I’ll tell you. If I want you to stop.”

“Good boy,” Fjord says again, like he’s testing the words on his tongue. Caleb trembles at the raw, nerve-ending scrape of it against his psyche. He likes it, probably more than he should. But then Fjord’s hand comes down between his shoulder blades and drags _down_ , claws leaving five neat lines of burning-bright sensation along his spine, and all rational thought leaves him.

Like a pearl diver plunged deep into the cold waters, Caleb is submerged again. He can hear himself faintly whimpering as if at a great distance, but it’s a far-away concern when balanced against the heat of Fjord’s mouth and the delicate press and scrape of his claws. His teeth dig in, too, marking him from thighs to sacrum, and Caleb has a vague, half-formed hope that he’ll feel the marks of Fjord’s tusks every time he sits down for the next few days.

Orgasm is faded but sweet, like the clinging sepia wash of an old painting whose varnish has gone brown with age. It is superseded by the sting of ten claws digging into his cheeks as Fjord presses his tongue in deep, the pain so sweet he can hardly breathe.

Fjord carries him to bed. He knows because he feels the come-down, being borne to the mattress by strong arms, whimpering at the lonely chill of the untouched sheets. There is a kiss to his brow, soothing whispers, the clunk of discarded boots and belt and trousers. And then Fjord is there, finally, curled up around him like a clam around its pearl, tucking Caleb tightly to Fjord’s bare chest. Caleb mumbles something unintelligible and shoves his face into Fjord’s neck.

“Hmm?” Fjord hums, petting damp hair back from his face. “D’you say something, love?”

 _Love_. Caleb’s breath catches a little, and he tries to remember what he’d been trying to say.

“You…” he begins, tongue thick in his mouth. “You didn’t…”

“I didn’t need to,” Fjord interrupts gently.

“But—”

“Later, all right?” He kisses Caleb’s brow, his cheek. The loose curl of his fingers. The scarred palm of his hand. “Later. Just rest, beautiful. You need it.”

Caleb wants to argue, but Fjord seems genuine, and the tender press of his lips to his hand is like a sprinkle of sleep powder to his hazy mind. With the familiar, comforting smell of Fjord in his nose—salt, rye, and new-burnished linens—Caleb shuts his eyes and drifts away, Fjord’s steady heartbeat keeping him bound to him like a tether as he flies.


End file.
